We got back into the Land Rover. Moving on we stopped to look at some waterbuck, with the distinctive white ring on their black behinds. Themba called it a toilet ring because it looked just like one was stuck to the animal. We also saw some kudu. ‘The ghosts of the bush,’ Themba called them, ‘because they are hard to find and can disappear almost in an instant.’
‘Oh look!’ cried Moira, pointing to an almost black haze darting across the road ahead, right through a fence, and scampering off. I think there were about four of them. One large animal and three smaller ones. Their tales pointing up like little antennas.
‘Warthogs!’ said Themba.
‘Oh they look so sweet – the little ones!’ cooed Moira. ‘How did they get through the fence so quickly?’
Themba drove up to the fence showing us the old, used, motor car tyres placed at regular intervals at the foot of the fence. ‘They are just big enough for the warthogs to scamper through on their knees. We sometimes find that poachers set up traps here. Or they set them in the footpaths that animals like to use.’
‘Traps?’ cried Moira.
‘What kind of traps?’ asked Frank.
‘They are usually very simple: just a long piece of wire, tied around and slipped through an eye, forming a noose. The poachers don’t care if they hurt the animals. And if they catch something that they don’t want, they just leave it there to die.’
‘Terrible!’ shrieked Moira.
We drove on and after a while reached a place called Picnic Rock. Large, yellow-brown boulders were stacked on top of each other, covered here and there by trees, shrubs and smaller underbrush.
Themba stopped and switched off the engine. ‘If you would follow me,’ he said like a true gentleman. ‘Mama Unahti has packed us a basket of fruit and confectionaries. We can enjoy it while taking in the splendid view from the top of the hill. But be careful, this is a favourite spot for leopards. They just love lying here, basking in the sun.’
Moira giggled nervously. She probably thought it was a joke.
‘Do you think she would be able to outrun a leopard if one came charging down the hill?’ I whispered to André.
‘No ways, she’ll be the first one he catches. At least we only need to outrun her if something happens. It’s like the relationship between the zebras and blue wildebeest that I told you about! Blue wildebeest are easy prey because of the zebra’s agility.’
I sniggered. Simoshile seemed to think we were very rude.
We made our way up the boulders, Moira heaving heavily. At least there was someone around in worse shape than me.
There were no leopards on Picnic Rock. I breathed a silent sigh of relief. Themba was right; the view from up there was incredible. He showed us where the boundaries of the resort ran. It was an enormous place. I’d never before seen so many shades of green. There were clearings intermingled with areas that looked like lumps of green clay stuck together. And everything was drenched in terrific sunlight.
Up there we could hear birds calling clearly, also the continuous buzz of cicadas. Sounds rushing in from all directions. The light breeze cooling our hot bodies. Fresh air filling our lungs.
Even the food tasted great.
‘There,’ said Simoshile, pointing to a clump of trees. ‘Giraffes.’
‘Where?’ I asked, feeling stupid for not being able to see them.
‘Near that clearing, there …’
Now I saw them. These large animals were reduced to tiny dots in the majestic landscape.
Hghou! Hghou! came a new sound a distance away.
I looked at André, questioningly. ‘Leopard!’ he said excitedly. We soon found it with the binoculars, lazing on the sundrenched boulders on a nearby hill. Its elegant head was raised slightly off the rock, surveying the surroundings. Its spotted yellow coat shone golden in the sun. The tip of its long tail whisked around gently.
As we quenched our thirst with some of Mama’s homemade fruit juice, Lwazi suddenly said the magic word. ‘Elephants!’
CHAPTER 19
I counted five grey dots in the distance. They were moving through the trees at a lazy pace.
‘Come!’ shouted Themba. Soon we were back in the Land Rover, heading for the family of elephants.
I could see that even André and Simoshile shared in the excitement, even though they must have seen elephants a hundred times. The wind rushed by the Land Rover. Grabbing her hat, Moira giggled with tension and excitement.
And then … there they were … The giants of the bush. I held my breath. They were magnificent. Dusty grey. Enormous. Intelligent and immensely strong, I was sure. They seemed to be going about their business undisturbed. But every now and again you would see one of them shooting a quick glance in our direction. Shining black eyes. Yellow white tusks and a curious, curling trunk.
They moved around without a sound. ‘Their massive feet have got very thick soles,’ explained Themba, whispering now. ‘It prevents them from slipping and it drowns out any noise should they step on a twig.’
‘Why do they keep on flapping their ears?’ asked Tom.
‘Their ears have complex blood vessels. And if they fan them, it cools them down by as much as 5 °C.’
‘They are so big …’ said Moira.
‘The bulls can weigh up to 6½ tons,’ said Themba. ‘But you probably would too if you ate 5% of your bodyweight in food every day!’
‘Oh, I’m not sure if she doesn’t already,’ chuckled Frank. Moira gave him a deathly stare that would make even an elephant run for the hills.
The elephants seemed really peaceful. I was so taken in by them that I didn’t even notice the tip of one of my fingers touching Simoshile’s hand. But she did, and when I caught her looking at me weirdly, I pulled back my hand quickly, muttering, ‘Sorry!’
We went back home for lunch and later rejoined the group for an afternoon drive through the Namhlanje camp. It was quite a tiring day, but we had seen so many animals: sable antelopes, jackal, zebras, baboons. And another one of the Big Five: buffalo.
Then, late that afternoon, as the sun was slipping down to the horizon, we heard the sound: Oemfff … Oemfff … Oemfff …
A sudden chill ran down my spine. It didn’t seem to be very far off. I looked at André and Simoshile. Their faces tensed up.
‘It’s okay,’ said André.
Themba’s head turned towards his rifle, then back to the bush around us. Scanning it intently. He said a few words to Lwazi in isiZulu. I didn’t understand it.
‘What was that?’ asked Moira, her face screwed up.
‘Lions,’ answered Themba, almost respectfully.
‘Oh, my!’ There was a slight alarm in Moira’s voice.
‘They’re quite close. But don’t worry.’
The Land Rover moved on slowly. I knew what Themba was thinking: It could be the lion they were looking for. What if it was him? Would he go chasing after it with the rest of us still seated at the back of the vehicle?
He seemed tense. Eventually Lwazi whispered, ‘I see them.’ His hand stretched out slowly. All heads turned in the direction he was pointing. My grip around the armrest tightened. Fear filled my mind.
There they were. A pride of about four lions. Two full-grown ones and two cubs. Their coats shone in the last glimmering light of day.
Again Themba and Lwazi exchanged words in isiZulu.
‘It’s not the one they’re looking for,’ whispered Simoshile to André and me.
The tense mood suddenly lifted as Themba’s calm voice soothed our fears. ‘The king of the animals,’ he said with wonder.
The Americans insisted that the three of us join them for dinner that evening. Simoshile and André said they had to get back home. I looked at Themba, waiting for his approval. He nodded. ‘Buyisiwe will join us,’ he said. And a slight smile appeared on his lips. My heart skipped a beat.
There was a lovely campfire burning in the enclosure beside the main building. Themba called this place the lapa. It was
beautifully decorated with candles, wooden African masks, carved statuettes, spears and animal hide shields. Mama Unahti moved about giving orders to her kitchen staff and seeing that everything ran according to plan. Her plan, of course!
The wonderful smell of food drifted in the air.
We were all gathered around the crackling fire. I sat next to Themba and marvelled at his charming ways with the guests.
They hung on his every word, as he explained the tough training game-rangers go through. ‘We have to walk every road in the reserve, to get to know them better. It helps you memorise the features, like special trees, anthills, rocks, road junctions. These become your landmarks. You normally wouldn’t even notice them when you drive around for the first time.’
He also set about explaining the exams they took: shooting practice, practical work like tracking animals and performing first aid.
‘And you, son,’ asked Moira, ‘are you going to follow in your father’s footsteps and become a Ranger too?’
‘I … I don’t know,’ I stammered.
‘All of this is new to Buyisiwe,’ said Themba. ‘He’s been living in London all his life.’
‘I thought your accent was a bit strange for an African,’ said Moira.
I smiled, not knowing what to say.
‘But he’s getting used to living in Africa,’ added Themba. ‘He has already made some friends who seem to enjoy his company as well.’
There was a kindness in Themba’s voice that I hadn’t known before. Was he finally warming to me? Had I been wrong about him all this time?
A sudden drumbeat pierced the night. More beats followed, thumping in my chest. I looked around. Out of the dark appeared two drummers and six Zulu dancers. White, woolly fleece was tied to their lower legs and upper arms. Their loose hanging loin-cloths were made from brown animal hide. The tensed up muscles in their bare chests glimmered in the light of the fire. In their hands they carried spears and animal hide shields.
The tempo of the drumbeats increased, growing louder all the time. Pounding out a mesmerizing rhythm.
The dancers formed a half circle. Their bodies now moved as one. Twisting to the beat of the drum. Bare feet stomping, sending up clouds of dust. They whistled sharply. The beat changed, becoming dark, threatening, speaking to me in a language that only my heart seemed to understand.
I suddenly felt sad. But in a good way.
One of the dancers broke free from the group. He took centre stage. His eyes wide, body glistening with sweat. He danced, bending forward, and then curling over backwards again, muscles rippling. In a flash he raised his feet high up in the air, then he forced them down hard on the ground. The other dancers cheered him on, their spears banging against their shields. The dancer seemed to be in a trance, stomping his feet harder and harder until eventually he fell to the floor, exhausted. He scampered back to the others and another dancer broke free from the group, repeating the ritual.
All too soon it was finished. We all clapped hands. Frank cheered as the drummers and dancers disappeared back into the night.
‘Were those real spears?’ asked Moira with wide eyes.
Themba suppressed a smile. ‘Yes, they were. The short spears that you saw were introduced by Shaka, the great Zulu king. The spears were called Iklwa because of the sound they made when you stabbed your enemy.’
‘Oh, my!’ said Moira softly. ‘You say the king’s name was Sa-ka?’
‘Shaka,’ corrected Themba. ‘He was the founding father of the Zulu kingdom. He had a very unhappy childhood. He and his mother had both been driven from their home. Later he killed all of his paternal half brothers, except for three. Shaka ruled tyranically. When his mother, Nandi, died, Shaka lost his mind. He had hundreds of Zulus killed. And he ordered that no crops were to be planted or milk used for a whole year. He was eventually killed by two of his brothers, one of whom, Dingane, succeeded him.’
‘Terrible!’ said Moira with a sigh. ‘I don’t like stories of people getting killed. I’d rather you tell us an animal story!’
‘All right, then. How about a story about the hippo?’ asked Themba, his face shining like the sun, in the firelight. Moira nodded anxiously, like a little girl waiting for a bedtime story.
‘Hippos had lived on land for centuries. But when, one day, they decided to settle in the water, the fish were the first to object: “You only want to eat us,” they complained. “That’s just silly,” said the hippos. “We only eat grass. We need to cool down every once in a while. The African sun’s rays are extremely hot. The water seems just the place to be.” But the fish insisted that it was all a cleverly thought out plan to have them for breakfast, lunch and dinner. “All right then, we’ll make you a deal,” said the hippos. “If you allow us to make the water our home, we promise to always relieve ourselves on land. We’ll spray our dung about and you will soon be comforted in seeing that there’s not a single fish bone in it.” And to this day, if you see a splattering of dung on a shrub or grass, you will know that it was left there by a hippo.’
‘Lovely!’ cried Moira, clapping her hands. We all laughed heartily. ‘One more!’ she cried.
‘I think dinner is ready,’ said Themba. ‘Why don’t we all enjoy Mama Unahti’s lovely food, and afterwards I’ll tell you how the giraffe got its long neck.’
We had barely finished dinner when Themba pulled me to the side. ‘I think it’s time for you to go to bed now, Buyi. Say goodnight and ask to be excused.’
‘But I’m not tired yet.’
‘Buyi, listen. I’m not asking you to do it, I’m telling you.’ The strict tone was back in Themba’s voice. It was all just a show then, all that careless banter in front of the guests. It made my heart sink. I did as he instructed.
Mama Unahti must have overheard Themba talking to me. She took me aside, and lovingly hugged me. ‘Ngiyazi … I know,’ she said, softly, warmly. ‘I know …’
The road back to the chalet in the dark was long and lonely.
CHAPTER 20
As I passed Simoshile’s chalet, I heard voices. They drew me nearer. She was sitting there with her dad, Lwazi. He had his arm around her shoulder. They were staring at the fire, their voices drifting in the wind. Mingling with the sound of the crickets and night birds.
I stood there in the dark, watching them. In that instant I realised what the love between a father and a child should be like. It pained me, for not having it with Themba. Was I being too hasty? Would it turn out all right eventually if I gave it some time?
I listened to the story Lwazi told Simoshile. It was a Zulu folktale about life and death. ‘It was our great-great ancestor, uNkulunkulu, who created the Zulu people and the world around them. After making Man, he sent the chameleon off to pass on a joyful message to them: “You will bear a great number of children. And live forever.” But then uNkulunkulu changed his mind, so he sent the gecko lizard off with another message: “All the people, all the animals, all living things will die!”
‘The chameleon wandered off, lazily. He came upon some ubuKwébezane berries. They looked so good that he started feasting on them immediately. Time passed and still the chameleon ate berry after berry. There’s still plenty of time left to deliver the message to Man, he thought. It was only much later that he decided to move on. When he eventually reached his destination, he found that the lizard had already delivered his message. And from that day on, all living things, including Man were doomed to die.’
The story stayed with me as I fell asleep that night, dreaming of chameleons and lizards.
I woke the following day with the sound of a plover screeching. The cicadas had also started their drawn-out jeer.
I felt a faint sadness inside me. Was I homesick? I missed Mum a lot. But I enjoyed South Africa. The animals, the people, the new experiences I would never have had back in London. I preferred the wide African skies to the dull, cloudy skies of London. I didn’t miss the bustling streets of London, the grey buildings, the noise, the rain.
It was as if my soul had quietened down here. I could breathe freely. But there was still something missing …
I heard the front door open. Footsteps, which I recognised by now as Themba’s.
‘Buyi? Are you still sleeping?’ he asked, leaning past the doorway into my room. His uniform was spotless.
‘No, just lying here, thinking. What are you doing back?’
‘I came to fetch my rifle. Lwazi, Johan and I are going out into the bush to try and find that lion. We had a bit of a scare yesterday. We don’t want that to happen again.’ He entered my room, glancing around. ‘There are no guests in the camp today. The Americans have gone to the cheetah sanctuary down the road. They will be back late afternoon.’
‘Can I come with you?’ I sat upright in my bed.
‘No!’ His answer was abrupt.
I sighed and leaned back against the pillow. Another day of boredom.
‘Why is this room such a pigsty?’ Themba stared at me, his face strict, disapproving.
‘Sorry?’
‘All these things lying around. CDs, shoes, clothes … Didn’t I tell you to do your washing? And clean up after yourself?’
‘You told me to do my own washing. Not to clean up.’
‘Do I have to spell everything out to you, Buyisiwe?’ His voice was in attack mode. Fierce.
‘Yes, why don’t you? Then at least I would know what you want. Bloody hell!’
‘You are not going to swear at me!’
‘Oh, I’m sorry then, another thing you didn’t spell out for me!’
Themba’s whole body tensed up. His jaws were clenched. His hands rolled into tight fists. ‘You will respect elder people. Get out of bed and get a move on. I’ll be back this afternoon.’ Silence fell between us, then he said, ‘And another thing – make sure Umfana is cared for. See to it that he gets clean water and food. Clear enough for you?’
He left in a rage.
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